


The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street

by cordeliadelayne



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: BAMF Nightingale, Case Fic, Christmas, Established Relationship, Light-Hearted, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 19:05:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9456599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordeliadelayne/pseuds/cordeliadelayne
Summary: Nightingale and Peter get called to a robbery in progress.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fredbassett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/gifts).



> Written for the lovely fredbassett's 2016 fandom stocking.

You'd think that with an increase in magic there would be a corresponding uptake in bank robberies, especially when magic can knock out any useful electronics, but Nightingale once told me that even with the Folly at full capacity bank robberies weren't all that common. Which is why I was surprised to be woken at 4am one morning just before Christmas by Nightingale telling me the Bank of England had requested our assistance.

“Did they say what the problem was?” I asked.

“Only that it was definitely one of our cases,” Nightingale replied, steering the Jag around a group of six Santas in various states of undress who were standing drinking in the middle of the road. Not one to miss an opportunity to spread a little Christmas cheer I called it in on the radio and then turned back to our conversation.

“How do they know what cases we deal with?”

“Sir Isaac Newton was appointed Master of the Royal Mint in 1699. There's been a long association between the Folly and the Bank ever since.”

“Does it have a genius loci?”

Nightingale kept his eyes on the road, something I appreciate in a driver dealing with this amount of ice and snow, but I could see his smile.

“I haven't met one,” he said, “and I don't recall any references to one in the library. But perhaps that can be a project for you in the New Year.”

He laughed as I groaned. I already had a stack of Latin to deal with, not to mention some new formae that I was itching to try, and whatever paperwork I'd have to write up after this latest jaunt.

I was just about to ask another question as we approached the Bank when the security van parked outside exploded and Nightingale had to mount the pavement and put the car into a spin to avoid the debris that shot out like missiles.

“Call it in,” he said, already half out of the door.

I did so quickly, making sure to tell control that we were dealing with Falcon capable suspects, and ran to check up on Nightingale.

He was carefully approaching the van, or what was left of it. It looked like it had been empty, the only debris the crumpled metalwork of the van itself and the engine, laying on top of what used to have been its roof. No sign of any driver which was a good sign. No sign of the practitioner either, which wasn't.

“Demon trap?” I asked, mimicking Nightingale's slow and careful progress.

Nightingale shook his head. “No, this seems more targeted.” I realised he was looking up at the rooftops and shifted my own gaze, but if there was anyone up there watching, I couldn't see them. He held up a hand and I stopped. I waited a few seconds and was about to say something when he twitched his fingers, as if he knew I was about to speak.

Then I heard what he must have, a low rumbling sound. It was coming from the wall of the bank.

“Move!” Nightingale shouted, waving towards the other side of the wall. I did so quickly, just missing having a tonne of bricks land on my head as a hole appeared in the wall, as if punched through by a giant hand.

Nightingale moved to stand in front of me, formae forming so fast I lost track of them. Bricks were still tumbling out around us and I extended a shield above our heads, trusting that Nightingale would tell me to stop if I was going to get in his way.

Suddenly the bricks started to reform as quickly as they fell and I realised that Nightingale was _rebuilding_ the wall of the bank. Whoever was trying to take them down wasn't as fast or as skilled as Nightingale and the wall seemed to be finished in no time, except with one notable addition.

“Did you – did you just put a door in the wall?” I asked.

“How else are we going to get to them?” Nightingale replied, not unreasonably considering.

He moved over to the door and stepped inside first, motioning for me to follow. I did so, keeping back a little in case a fight broke out. Instead we found the two would be thieves sitting on a pile of gold bars, looking completely exhausted. Or a lot like two practitioners who knew that any more magic was going to kill them.

“We surrender!” They said, in thick East European accents, raising their hands above their heads.

Nightingale and I exchanged bemused looks – somebody had watched too many American cop shows.

“Peter, if you'd be so good as to caution these gentlemen, I'll alert the bank's security.”

* * * *

Once Nightingale had removed his makeshift door the security of the bank had been given the all clear and all the money had been accounted for. Our two suspects, who gave their names as Mr Brown and Mr Pink (I didn't bother explaining to Nightingale), were members of a known criminal gang stretching across Europe who'd come across a Little Crocodile and blackmailed him into teaching them magic. He had at least had the sense to teach them about hyperthaumaturgical degradation, but had not, much to Nightingale's undisguised disgust, taught them the basics before showing them how to blow holes in walls. They probably knew less actual magic than I did.

By the time we had taken statements and Nightingale had arranged with some of his old Foreign Office contacts to have our two friendly bank robbers repatriated I was starting to remember that I'd been on the go for eight hours with only what Bishopsgate's nick laughingly called coffee to sustain me.

“Come on,” Nightingale said, appearing at my elbow, “home.”

I may or may not have dozed a little as Nightingale drove us back to the Folly, because the next thing I knew Nightingale had a warm hand on my knee. He gifted me with a soft smile as I blinked awake.

“Food first or bed?” he asked.

“Bed,” I decided, food suddenly the last thing on my mind.

“Bed it is, then,” he agreed, and squeezed my knee, before getting out of the car and waiting expectantly for me to join him. Which I was more than happy to do.


End file.
